Oblivion's End
by Queen of the Red Skittle
Summary: AU. After losing everything to Odin, a she-demon vows to bring about his downfall, or die trying.


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, except for my OC.

**A.N: **Written to Explosions in the Sky and Han's Zimmerman's soundtrack _The Thin Red Line, _especially "Journey to the Line."

**A.N#2: **This story takes place before the events of the movie and changes everything. Hence, AU.

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Sometimes I live in the country,

Sometimes I live in the town;

Sometimes I get a great notion

To jump into the river . . . an' drown.

—From the song_ "Good Night, Irene,"_

byHuddie Ledbetter and John Lomax

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Oblivion's End

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PART I

Loki looked on the crowded auditorium with mild distaste, wishing for the hundredth time that morning he was elsewhere. Every so often Thor's meaty elbow jostled his side, robbing him of the little peace he could've had. His older brother, oblivious of personal space and of Loki's discomfort, was engaged in a rousing conversation with one of the Warriors Three about the merits of two-handed blades. Loki tuned him out with the skill of years of experience. It was midmorning in Asgard: bright sunlight streamed down from between the gigantic marble pillars supporting the massive hall. Alabaster doves flapped high above. The buzz of conversation and rustling clothing from many bodies filled the air. At least the arena was open to the outside: the cooling breeze made the presence of hundreds of assembled Asgardians tolerant to the dark prince. His gaze flitted over the sea of faces, dispassionate. He wished he was back in his quiet room with his books and spells rather than here, stuck at his oaf of a brother's side, wasting half the morning. Did Odin truly need both his sons' presence to witness the public sentencing? Everyone knew Thor—loud, brash, boar-headed Thor—was primed to be the next Lord of Asgard, not him. It was a pretense that the brothers were equal, that they both had an equivalent chance to the throne. Loki felt his mouth pull into the familiar sneer. The little bread and meat he had nibbled before the summoning soured in his stomach.

A rougher elbow nudged his side, jolting Loki out of his brooding. It was Thor.

"Say, brother, do you know when this ends? Volstagg is complaining of starvation."

Loki affected to straighten his leathers. "Weren't you paying attention to what the Allfather said?"

Thor's forehead furrowed. Loki tried not to sigh. "We're here until Father delivers the coal dog's sentence."

Thor sat back, a slight frown still on his face. He glanced at the chained figure below. "You mean the commander of Surtur's army?"

"I'm glad you gave notice," Loki said.

Thor grunted under the lash of his brother's sharp tongue before returning to gentler conversations.

_Coal dog:_ it wasthe loose, colloquial term referring to one of the many fire demons living in the molten pits of Muspelheim. They were a common enough creature: loyal minions to Surtur, their natural form took that of a large black dog. Loki read in his tomes they were able to shape shift into the appearance of an Asgardian at will, but knew little else about them. With nothing better to do the god turned his attention to the huddled figure at the centre of the auditorium. At his closeness to the bottom he was graced with a better view than those at the top of the seats. He hadn't paid attention to it before. Its nakedness to him it was female. She was dirty and unkempt. At his seating's angle the tangled black hair hid her features from him. She made no move to cover her nakedness as she kneeled, head bowed, hair drawn, seemingly oblivious to the morbid curiosity of the assembled Asgardians. Iron shackles on her wrists, neck, and feet kept her tethered in place. Loki turned bored eyes upward, where the doves searched for perches. He suddenly wished he wasn't so close to the centre. Unlike his battle-thirsty brother, he found little joy in brute acts of power. His dark delights came from stealth and subtlety, of tricks and placing the blame on some hapless fool. No_, _he decided, he wasn't going to enjoy what was to come.

Loki didn't wait much longer. A sudden hush across the auditorium turned his head and he saw the foreboding, grizzled visage of the king of Asgard. Odin's face appeared chiseled in stone, each weary line standing out in the clear midmorning light. Frigga was by her husband's side, as regal and composed as the marble statues flanking the mighty hall. Loki half-expected her eyes to wander the sea of people until she found her sons, but she kept her stare resolute. Odin took a step forward and brought the butt of Gungnir down on the stone platform. A resounding tremor rumbled throughout the gathering. If it was quiet before, it was dead now. Even Thor was subdued for once, concentration furrowing his brow; Loki could almost hear him memorizing everything their father did in preparation for when such a bleak task rested on his shoulders. Only the prisoner appeared alive as she shook herself, as if waking from a long dream. Her head lifted. Her hair still covered her features.

When Odin spoke, it was like thunder. "Demon commander of Surtur's army," he said. "You have been brought here for pains of treason."

The shackles shivered and clanked like living snakes as the demon roused herself. Her throat worked. It took a moment for Loki to realize she was trying to speak.

"Mercy," she said. In a louder voice, "Mercy."

Odin's face was stone, his eye, flint. "You will find no mercy here, demon, not when you were so willing to lead Surtur's army to slaughter innocent lives. You may think to hide behind the orders of your master, but soldiers have the final choice whether or not to obey. No: here you will find my justice swift."

The coal dog stood up and snarled, mimicking a wolf so eerily those closest to the prisoner gasped. The guards nearest to her shifted their stances, gripping their spears into firmer holds. "You have taken everything already: my army, my blood-kin." Her Muspelheim accent lent her voice a heavy, rough growl. "You have crippled Muspelheim. Surtur is but a shadow. You have your vengeance. Let me go."

Odin took another step forward. When he spoke, his tone was softer, but no less absolute. Despite his lowered voice everyone in attendance could hear their king. "Heavy words, but your men knew what they were doing when they followed you into battle. Surtur himself should not have sent an army. No one may take up arms against Asgard without death. My word is law."

Loki was relieved when Odin hit Gungnir again on the platform and thundered, "I will hear no more. As punishment for leading an assault against Asgard, you are sentenced to be encased in ice in the bowels of Asgard until Ragnarok."

The coal dog stood as if struck dumb. When the first Aesir went to unfetter her shackles she was as if turned to stone. One had to strike her shoulder to get her to walk, and when she did, she shuffled as if already dead, plodding after her handlers. She was soon out of sight. Sounds returned to the auditorium as hundreds of Asgardians got to their feet, wiping dirt from clothes, murmuring in conversations of two or three. Loki stood up, stretching muscles sore from inactivity. At his side, Thor continued to sit, brow furrowed, even after people began to file towards the exits. Despite the sweet lure of freedom, Loki dawdled.

"Something on your mind, brother?" he asked, mouth stretching. "I wish I wasn't the only one to witness this momentous occasion."

Thor grunted and rose. "It is nothing. Just a thought, is all."

"Must've been a heavy one, to keep you so grounded."

Thor flashed him a grin, but it was a shadow compared to his normal one. As usual, Loki read him like a well-worn book and quickly determined the source of Thor's sudden discomfort. Loki cocked his head, a little surprised at his own finding. He hadn't judged his lout of a brother to be the questioning type.

"You disagree with Father's ruling?"

Thor twitched his head once in an empathetic _no,_ while the rest of his uneasy body stance whispered _yes. _"Everything Father does is for a reason. We should not question it." He shook himself, as if waking from a dream. "Come: let's not linger here. I would much rather be doing other things."

For once, Loki could agreed with his brother.

.s.

The story of the demon commander ended with all of Asgard; as far as they were concerned, the sentence was given, the punishment delivered. But for Sol, she was plunged into darkness. She was marched away from the arena. It _had_ been an arena, a place of sport. Since her incarceration two weeks ago, there hadn't been a trial. There were no jury of her peers. Her body was meat, her mind in fog as she walked without sense, blind, the tramp of the guards' boots and their iron grips on her forearms leagues away. Her heart was a dead weight in her chest. The Allfather's words _encased in ice till Ragnarok_ were so cold they burned in her mind, searing like the after-image one gets for staring at a brightness too long. She could think or see nothing else, and as the guards led her further down into the bowels of Asgard, she realized she had no memory of the passage. She turned her head the best the metal collar allowed. She could smell the guards' sweat and the polish of their armor; it was a sweet, musty odor, so foreign from the aroma of the fire plains of her home. The air became stale and colder, as if no one had drawn breath in a long time. Sol tried breathing through her mouth to avoid the smell of her imminent punishment, but the panting sounds she made resembled too much of the panic struggling to escape her.

She was led into an anti-chamber so large the walls faded into the darkness. The only source of light came from a small ring of torches in the centre of the room. In the middle of the torches stood a dark hole. The heaviness of the guards' tread echoed throughout the chamber as they led her down the hundreds of steps, the slither and click of her chains shockingly loud in her ears. Sol sniffed the air and growled at the scent of death and ice emitting from the hole. It was more pit than anything else, and the closer she approached, the more she realized it was to be her prison. A hole, a soulless crevice, where she would spend eternity for her crimes. A curious stillness fell about her like a shroud, a numb disbelief. For following orders she would suffer until Ragnarok. She hadn't lied when she spoke to the Lord of Asgard. All of her men were dead. Her blood-kin, slaughtered. Her home, ravaged. Yet the Allfather's wrath was unquenched; he demanded more. Would her suffering alone be enough to appease the one-eyed beast?

_I'm to be a sacrifice for the entire uprising_, she thought. And Surtur would let it happen. Though she had been his commander, she was still a lowly soldier in the fire demon king's eyes, expendable, not worth rescue. She was nothing—nothing to Odin, nothing to Surtur, nothing to the people of Asgard. They had all come to watch her receive her sentence as if it were entertainment. The pure decadency brought an ugly flush to her cheeks. Even before entering battle with the Aesir, Sol knew the Asgardians were arrogant and conceited of their supremacy over the other worlds. They saw themselves pure and beautiful compared to the rest of the realms and acted as if that gave them the right to strut about as if they owned Yggdrasil itself. Even their crown prince Thor was a boar-headed, arrogant, petulant child, known to kill a man for simply looking at him wrong, and the second son delved in dark magicks and mischief.

Maybe it would be easier if she succumbed. Though she hadn't always been a soldier, though it'd been Surtur himself who picked her over all his male officials to lead his army, she was no stranger with death. She was good at killing, and knew one day she would die in battle. Who was she to stave off the inevitable? But then she thought of Odin's expression as he announced her sentence, of all the blasé curiosity from the Asgardians, and a hatred as bitter and black as the blood of Surtur coursed through her veins.

As if sensing the change in her demeanor, the guards tightened their grips on her and their weapons.

"No trouble, now," a guard said.

They were at the bottom of the staircase. The stones on her bare soles were cold and wet and stank of mildew. The fires flicked and thrummed, smelling of oil. She stumbled to her knees, her chains clanking. "Please," she said, "_please._"

"We're just delivering the sentence," another guard said. His face was young, smooth, and the awkward openness in his gaze beheld his sympathy. "Nothing personal."

"Enough chatter," said another guard. Irritation and tension lent a sharp bite to his voice as he tried to goad her back on her feet. His fingers were bruising. When she continued to act like dead weight he raised his staff and struck her a blow across the head. Pain blossomed behind her lids and Sol went limp. Hands grabbed her. She was aloft.

The same guard spoke. "Let's get her in." They began to move, grunting, shuffling. Sol hung there, trying to let herself surrender, trying to ignore the mounting dread twisting her bowels. Panic surged like electricity at the sudden view of the bottomless pit and she gasped as her entire being revolted.

_NO!_

The grip holding her right leg was loose. In a blink she tore her foot free and lashed out in a fearsome kick. The guard fell back with a shout, the chain slipping to the ground. She began to writhe, fear lending her limbs a ferocious strength.

As her cries turned to snarls a guard shouted, "It's changing!" and fell back. The familiar crawling sensation prickled along her spine, zipping up each vertebrae before moving down her limbs. There was no warning as her skin began to stretch over simultaneously rearranging bones, muscles, and organs. For a heartbeat she was an organic puzzle of breaking and mending, twisting and settling. As the bones cracked and split, muscles ripped, and face elongated into a muzzle, there was no agony, only pressure. Her black hair turned to fur. Her coccyx extended into a tail. Sight sharpened. Hearing clarified. The iron shackles whined and buckled under the sudden change in size. For a second she thought she couldn't breathe as the iron collar tightened to the point of suffocation. Barely allowed the most shallowest of breaths, she looked up to see the guards drop the chains and ready their spears. One took up his blade and darted forward. He managed to score a thin red line before the savage muzzle whipped to him. The fanged mouth closed on his swordsarm and a scream of agony transcended the chamber as the limb was ripped from its socket. The surrounding guards surged forward, their spears flashing. Sol ducked their thrusts and with a paw more hand than pad pulled at a spear, forcing the wielder to stumble forward into her crushing jaws. A gout of blood splashed into her mouth, warm and salty. She released the dead guard and whirled, roaring.

A white blaze of pain lanced through her as a spear protruded from her side, its point buried deep. She snapped the shaft and left the spearhead inside—all she saw was red, saw the guards mauled at her paws, saw the carnage of a thousand soldiers, and she beset upon them in an explosion of fury, jowls snapping, claws slashing, terrible snarls surging. Shouts fell away. Shadows flickered. It wasn't until her muzzle was dripping blood and her sides heaving before her mind returned. Her nostrils flared, desperate for air under the collar's stifling hold. The hot aroma of metallic blood and rent flesh filled her nose. Beneath it all was the sour stench of fear, and as she turned her head she saw the young guard from before, alone alive amidst the body parts crowding his legs. A cut laced his pale cheek and he held his spear in front of him as if it were a lifeline in a storm. Minute tremors ran up and down the shaft.

Sol peeled lips back from gleaming teeth and she tensed, her muscles coiling beneath the black fur like snakes. The guard tightened his grip, sweat beading his forehead despite the honeysuckle chill in the air.

"Unfortunately for you," she said, jaws moving in a parody of speech, "it _is_ personal." And she fell on him, mouth gnashing, his cries rising for a brief moment before cutting off. At last she was alone, sucking in air. A hot wave of pain shuddered through her. Growling, straining her neck around the metal collar, she closed her jaws around the shaft and yanked the spearhead out in a spurt of blood. It fell to the stones with a hollow clang. She clenched her eyes shut, straining to rise above the pain. Blood pattered on the ground in soft _pic, pic, pic. _At last the waves ebbed to a manageable throb and she opened her eyes. A slaughter met her sight. What wasn't torn was shredded; what wasn't shredded was ripped to gory ribbons. Catchlights from the fire gleamed in the blood. Glistening intestines hung about her paws like dark ropes in the orange firelight. Steam rose in barely discernible plumes in the chilled air.

Sol stood dumb, feeling for all the world lost on a sea of dull sensations.

She'd done it: she was alive. She had, above the odds, skirted the gods' terrible punishment. She knew she had little time before someone came looking for the guards, but all she could do was stand, speechless at the enormity of her fortune. But what to do now? The reality of her situation sunk into her like a yellow wind. Everything she had ever loved was gone. She could return to Muspelheim, but how? And even if she did, the Aesir had taken their revenge and raped the landscape in their wrath. She could crawl back to Surtur, but he would either treat her as a deserter, or force her to serve his army again. She thought about the king who would let her rot in ice, her muzzle bunching. No; let him lick his wounds and remain the damned defeated king he was.

A queer whine rose from her throat. She tried to stem it, confused, but the whine climbed to a tremulous keen and before she knew it she was throwing her head back and howling, howling a cry of eldritch grief and anguish. The wail rose higher and higher until it disappeared into the icy filament of the chamber, at last tapering into a ringing silence. A heartbeat passed, then two. The strange burning weight in her chest felt better, lighter, as if she had cut herself, reached inside, and pulled out something rotting. The pain was still there, but it was a cleaner pain, and as she stared into the nothingness above her head, ears cocked for the footsteps sure to follow, she realized she had nothing left to lose, nothing left to live for, that she was alone, and she felt fluid, more dangerous, than when she had her entire army at her back. Think they could just throw her in ice, did they? Arrogant, decedent, ruthless Asgardians—they didn't even offer her a clean death. She decided then to let their one-eyed Lord of Asgard have a taste of his own mercy. She embraced the bitterness, gnawing on its hard, unmovable shape in her mouth as she would a bone.

Time was slipping away. Grimacing, wincing, she transformed back into her Asgardian disguise. The metal collar, once suffocating beneath her thick ruff of fur, became tolerant again. She held a hand hard against her bleeding side. She didn't have to look long to know it was serious. She could feel her muscles throbbing deep within her and every move nearly brought a cry of pain to her lips.

_You can do this, Sol, _she thought. Though her own grasp of healing magic was poor at best, she was familiar with the Midgardian method of cauterizing wounds. Because she was a fire demon, she would have to change the true composition of her body. Limping to one of the torches, she picked it out of its trough. Willing her skin to lose its resistance to the flame, she thrust the fire hard onto her side. Sweat beaded her forehead as she clamped down on the yowl surging in her throat. The scent of sizzling flesh filled her nose. After what seemed to be a lifetime she pulled the torch away, cheeks puffing. She murmured the reverse words to the spell and suddenly the surface pain receded as if it never happened. An angry red and purple wound met her sight. She clutched at it.

Pawing through the carnage, she at last dug up the ring of bloody keys. Selecting the right one through process of elimination, she unlocked the shackles. They fell to the ground, hitting the body parts with loud squishing noises. She went to work removing the armor and clothing from the mangled flesh. Then, grunting, she began to drag the bodies to the hole and shoved them in. One by one the darkness swallowed them. Try as she might, she couldn't hear them hit the bottom. The hair on the back of her neck stiffened and she backed away, snarling under her breath. _The chains, too, _she thought, and threw the chains in as well. She began to gather the assembled armor and, after several curses and errors, managed to dress herself. It was ill-fitting and far too large for her. Her helmet dipped into her eyes. She tripped on the cape. But it was better than nothing, and as the coal dog surveyed her handiwork, she knew she had no choice. Hand cradling her injured side, she began to make her way up the long staircase, her boots clanking. By the time she reached the top she was leaning on her spear and gritting her teeth against the harsh internal throb in her side. _You can overcome this, _she thought. _You've been through worse. Get up. _A tiny square of light gleamed down the long corridor. She began to walk down the tunnel, acutely aware not an hour before she'd been wrapped in chains and reeling from shock. She squared her shoulders, took a breath, then entered the light.

Sol blinked in the harsh, surreal glare of the sunlight. Wind pushed into her face and the scents of a thousand sources assaulted her: the dust from the doves above, the slightly gritty sun-warm stones, the sweat and musk of unseen Asgardians, sweet incense, ceremonial smoke, and the sizzling odor of an assortment of juicy meats. This last smell Sol latched onto; sniffing in deep draughts, she turned her head in the direction of the food. Her mouth watered. The last thing she'd eaten was a hard crust of bread and brackish water that morning. _No, _she thought. _I'm still exposed. I can steal something later, after I get out of the open. _Her eyes landed on the place where she'd been shackled to the floor, a bug for all the curious eyes, the pewter rings gleaming. Her lips curled on their own accord.

Resisting the urge to run, she began to head up the stairs of the auditorium. She was cresting the top, the end in sight, when a sharp, "You, there!" made her freeze mid-step. She slowly turned to see three guards heading toward her, all decked in shining armor. The leader stopped a few feet in front of her, gaze raking her with barely-concealed disdain.

"Why are you away from your post?"

Sol hid her hammering heart behind a sheepish smile. "Sorry, sir. I guess I got lost."

He grunted. "A greenhorn, eh? Thought so. Even your armor is mal-fitting. Come on, then, and don't you dare fall behind."

Sol bobbed her head and fell into step as the last guard breezed by. Her stomach twisted, but she forced herself to breathe evenly and follow, her every sense quivering. The guards led her away from the auditorium, their pace clipped, their shining boots moving in-step. Marble pillars and billowing silken tapestries flowed past. The scent of cooking meat grew stronger. Laughter, loud and boisterous, rang somewhere further beyond the pillars. Servants in nondescript clothing walked past, various materials or foods held in their careful hands. Each of them swept passed without even a glance at her. She watched everything with falcon eyes, trying to commit everything to memory. _They still don't sense anything amiss, _she thought, as tense as a drawn bowstring. _I still have a little time to disappear in the crowd. _She hoped, at least. She didn't know how long her guise as guard—which was intended to be a stopgap at best—would last. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of the bottomless hole, gooseflesh erupting across her skin.

Sol smelled the hot sand and sweaty musk of many bodies before the guards passed the sparring ring. It was an enormous open court, the sky above as blue as flame, great puffy white clouds spiraling past. There must have been thirty, forty half-clad men and women in various stages of sparring, their muscles sleek and oiled, shouts and banter and laughter permeating the air. Clacks from wooden training staves mixed with the metallic clangs of steel on shield, adding to the cacophony. The scene made her remember the mock-fighting of the young firedrakes of Muspelheim: seemingly vicious, they avoided dealing true blows. One figure stood out amongst the rest: taller, more muscular, swift and lithe, Sol knew she was looking at the golden-haired crowned prince of Asgard. Thor, the god of thunder, the wielder of the hammer Mjölnir. She watched him effortlessly toss a man over his shoulder while engaging a second, movements fluid and honed with a true warrior's instinct. After he defeated the second man he straightened, sweaty hair gleaming in the sunshine, his laughter booming over the chaos of the other sounds. Sol whuffed in a pull of air: he smelt of sweat and dirt, with a faint undercurrent of ozone and leather.

She had little time to stare when the guards were moving, taking her away from the sparring ring. She breathed a silent sigh of relief, glad to leave Thor's presence, slight as it was. She needed to escape the guards, and soon. Though her luck was holding so far, she didn't know how long it would last, and she was sure it wouldn't be long now before someone wondered at the missing guards. She until the entourage passed a marble pillar before stealing away, ducking behind it. She held her breath, counting the seconds as their footfalls faded away. When she was convinced she was alone she exhaled through her nose. She wiped away the sweat running down the sides of her face and grimaced at the twinge of pain.

The demon waited for an untold amount of time before the soft patter of footsteps perked her ears. Sol peek around and saw a servant girl hurrying her way, in her hands a platter filled with food. Sol waited until the girl was abreast with the pillar before grabbing her. The platter fell to the ground with a sharp _kang! _as Sol wasted no time bashing the girl's head into the marble. The girl fell slid to the ground in a soundless heap, blood gushing from her head in copious spurts. Sol placed two fingers along the girl's throat. A steady pulse fluttered. Sol looked both ways down the vast hallway. No one appeared. Wasting no time, the demon gathered up the spilled foods and platter and hid them out of sight. Stripping the girl of her clothes and herself of her armor, Sol donned the servant clothing. The girl had been her rough size and shape and the slightly scratchy garments hung around her, loose in some spots and tight in others. Hurrying, puffing against the throbbing spear wound, she wrestled the limp form into the armor. Still certain they were alone, she chose two hunks of meat and devoured them, hardly pausing to chew. When she finished, she wiped her mouth, picked up the platter with the rest of the food, and began to walk.

PART II

Morning came and went and still she was no closer to finding her bearings than before. Sol had no idea where she was supposed to go. Dread twisted her bowels and shrunk her stomach every time the _tramp, tramp, tramp _of soldiers' feet headed her way. But every time the guards _whish_ed past, the familiar scent of armor polish, leather, and musk swirling, they were gone, stomping away, leaving Sol to sigh in relief. More than once she had to relax her white-knuckled grip on the platter. More and more her plan of revenge seemed more like a hopeless cause, and more and more it became clear she would get caught. She snarled in fear. She vowed she'd kill herself before going near the dark pit again.

Asgard seemed to be one massive labyrinth of mighty corridors, open courts, halls, terraces, and passageways. Huge craggy cliffs marked the end of roads, often falling hundreds of feet below to a breathing, ever-moving ocean, the rich sea spray smell thick in her nose. Silver and iron-wrought spires extended on jagged rocks, sharp and imperious. Floating buildings, held up by magic, hung in mid-air. Beyond all of these glories stood the greatest of all: the sleek and shining palace of Asgard, a building so gold it shimmered like the scales of a fish. Try as she might, Sol couldn't help but admire the architecture and grandiose environment. Asgard truly knew prosperity and wealth. In a twinge of nostalgia, she wished for the sweltering volcanoes of her home: the ponderous flows of lava, the spurting gas pits, the roiling ash and pumice sky. The more she stared into the golden might of Asgard, the more disparaging the differences between her realm and this one became. How insane was she to think she could topple this all down? How could she, one lowly coal dog, change this? _ I would need to strike Odin a devastating blow, _she thought. _But how? I need to get close to him. Everything about this is how, how, how. _She growled under breath. She had been heading towards the gleaming palace, but seemed no closer than when she started off.

"Lost?"

Sol whirled, startled out of her brooding. A boy, dressed in the same garments as she, regarded her from where he sat on a balcony's rim.

"That obvious?" she asked.

The boy blinked. "Interesting accent you've got there."

"I was born on one of the outer worlds," Sol said. "I don't remember which." She added, helplessly, "I'm new."

"I could tell. Here, maybe if you tell me where you're going, maybe I can point you in the direction you need."

Sol stood up straighter. "The palace."

The boy's eyebrows rose. "You serve the palace? And you're new? Wow. I'm impressed."

"Don't be: I can't even find it. Asgard is a maze."

The boy nodded, solemn. "Aye, that it is. Well, my master gave me the afternoon off, so I could help you, if you'd like."

Sol smiled with her teeth. "You are very kind."

They began to walk. The boy led, picking a seemingly random direction to walk without hesitation, as if he'd taken this route every day. Sol followed him, heart a knot in her chest. She couldn't believe her fortune. She eyed her young guide. In Muspelheim, there were no servants, or slaves. All were free creatures, living under the harsh law of survival. Only during wartime, when Surtur would call upon his people to fight, did they become soldiers. Sol's heart clenched at the thought of all her kin left slaughtered on the battlefield, of all her friends she would never see again. She shook herself. It would do her no good to think of the dead.

"How long have you been a servant?" she asked her guide.

The boy hitched a shoulder. "All my life. You?"

Sol wrinkled her nose. "Same." She regarded him. "Do you wish for something else?"

"What—like me being not a servant? All the time. Who doesn't? But I know nothing will change, so I try not to worry about it."

"Why do you think nothing will change?"

The boy shot her a quizzled look. "It's just the way things are, miss. You can't fight your nature."

Sol snorted. "What makes you think your nature is that of a servant? Why not a soldier? Or a prince?"

The boy smiled at her, both sad and amused. "Because I'm terrible with a sword and politics bore me. For someone who says she's been born into slavery, you certainly don't act it."

Sol breathed through her nose. "Who serves Odin-king?"

If the sudden change in topics surprised the boy, he made no show of it. "Only his inner circle of guards and most handpicked, trusted servants. Unfortunately for you, even people in this profession need connections to move up the food chain."

"Ah." Sol tried to hide her disappointment. It would've been so much easier to find out his weakness if she was close to him.

"And the queen?" she asked, hopeful, but grew disheartened at her guide's head-shake.

"Again, handpicked, primed handlers. There's a waiting list a mile long of people who would love to serve her. She's said to be a kind, fair master."

"What about Prince Thor?" Sol asked.

The boy laughed. "He has his favorites, and trust me, you're not his type, if you get my meaning."

Sol eyed him. "You know much about the royal family. Do you serve them?"

"No, no. Everything I know is through gossip and rumors; besides serve, we servants love to talk. Gossip is sometimes the only thing we have. All of my sources are gold, so you can trust what I say."

Sol mulled on the boy's words, her heart sinking lower and lower. There was only one option left.

"What about Prince Loki? Who serves him?"

"Oh. He changes servants constantly."

Sol's ears perked. "Why is that?"

The boy gave her an odd stare. "You're new enough not to have heard the stories, then," he said. "He's a terrible master. Scares most of the serving girls and several men refuse to go near his chambers. He turns wine into snakes if you're late, or just for the fun of it. One time he magicked a closet's doors not to open and trapped a girl in there simply because he was bored, and it wasn't until hours later was she was found. Poor thing was scared half to death. Honestly, I wouldn't know why anybody would want to stay in his service."

"Is there a chance to volunteer?"

The boy actually stopped to regard her. "What? Why?"

"Let's just say I'm accustomed to . . . difficult masters."

The boy stared at her for a long moment. Sol didn't look away. At last the boy continued walking, his steps slower than before. After a few minutes, he said, "I'm good friends with the chef who prepares the royal family's meals. I could get you in that way."

Sol inclined her head. "My thanks."

"As far as I'm concerned, I'm not doing you a kindness. I've only seen him once at a distance and he scared me to my boots."

"And if he became your king?" Sol asked. "Your ruler?"

The coal dog saw the muscle clench in the boy's jaw before he spoke. "Then he would become my king and I would serve him to the best of my abilities," he said. "As a note of friendly advice, I'd suggest you don't ask this many questions in Prince Loki's presence, or any at all. I would hate to think anything bad would happen to you."

Sol tried to smile but it came out more grimace. Her lips were trying to curl over her teeth as if she still possessed a muzzle. When she didn't say anything, the boy held his peace, and the two of them fell into quiet.

.s.

They didn't speak again until they passed into the vast, golden expanses of the palace of Asgard, where her enemy ate and slept. Torches replaced sunlight. Sol's gaze darted around, trying to count the guards stationed around like sleeping threats. _Relax, _she thought. _You're a servant. You're allowed to come and go as you please. Try an act the part and they won't suspect a thing. _She wondered if they discovered the servant girl she knocked out by now, or the guards she'd killed. She breathed easier. Her disguise was strengthening. Their thin-soled feet pattered across the smooth marble floors as the boy led Sol away from the main entrance and into a subtle one. From its secrecy she knew it had to be the servants' passageway. The air was cooler and smelled of water and incense. Torches thrummed and flickered as they walked by, casting orange shadows. Other servants were darting in and out, busy, not at all paying attention to the boy or her. At last the boy brought her into a new chamber. It was enormous compared to the tightness of the corridor, golden, torch-lit, smelling of meats and vegetables and baking breads. Lines of ovens filled the wall. Sol's mouth began to water at the boar's sizzling carcass rotating on its spit.

"Wait here," the boy said. Then he disappeared amidst the bustling confusion of bodies darting in and out of the massive space. He was gone for what seemed like a lifetime before returning, cheeks flushed.

"You're in luck," he said, "if you'd call it that. Someone will come by and fetch you. Stay here until then."

Sol bowed her head. "Thank you," she said. "For everything."

The boy smiled, pure and sweet. "Only offering my service. I'm good at that," he said. Then he was gone, disappearing back into the corridor he came in, slipping away with the skill of ghost. Sol watched him leave, thoughts quiet. For the first time since the fateful morning and the dark pit, the demon took a relaxed breath. The anxiety that had gripped her sinews eased its hold and she found herself sitting, the weight on her chest oddly light. It had been a long while since she'd laid eyes on anything resembling an ally, and though the boy didn't know her true nature, she'd forgotten what it was like not to be seen as an enemy. Thanks to him, she'd made it this far. She tilted her head back on the cool stones and watched as the people bustled about the kitchens, laughter and orders and shouts mixing into one big din in her ears. She took to breathing in her mouth to avoid the cooking foods' tempting scents.

It wasn't long too long when a harried-looking woman appeared. Gray-haired at the temples, her thin, disapproving mouth reminded Sol of the old bitches who loved complaining around the lava pools. The thought brought a smile to her face as she stood up. The woman raked her eyes up and down her figure once before grunting.

"You're the one wanting to be Prince Loki's servant? Speak up and be quick about it."

"Yes."

"That's 'Yes, ma'am' to you."

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman's flyaway eyebrows drew to a V. "Normally I'd ask for your qualifications and such, seeing how you don't seem very skilled, but I know it wouldn't really matter. No one lasts very long anyway."

Without waiting for a reply, the woman turned and began to bustle away. Sol hurried to keep up, dodging people with similar haste and business. The further they went from the kitchens, the more it smelled of incense and fire and perfume. The odor of armor polish and leather from the guards was almost a given; Sol was beginning to recognize the guards' presence on scent alone. The woman led Sol through the long, sleek corridors, marble pillars and silken tapestries forming the walls. Whenever a tapestry billowed, she could see the Bifrost glittering in the distance, as thin as a fishbone. Then the tapestry would return to its customary position and the view was lost. The woman led Sol into a small room. It was filled with dressers and bins of clothes. The coal dog wrinkled her nose at the clean sting of detergent and cotton.

"Here—put this on. You need something more presentable than what you're wearing now. Honestly! It's as if you were just picked off the streets."

Sol ignored the dead ring of truth and began to strip. Careful to shield her angry cauterized wound from woman's prying eyes, she donned the new clothes. They slid over her skin in a whisper. The itchiness from the previous garments disappeared. These were cool, and hugged her form like a glove. After a few nitpick touches, the woman stepped back and grunted again.

"It'll do, I suppose." She sighed loudly through her nose. "Well, it's just about suppertime. The prince usually takes his supper alone in his chamber, unless specified otherwise. The sheets are changed every day—the rest is dusted, scrubbed, and polished. You'll get help with that. Ah, I'm getting too far ahead of myself. We'll see if you last this night. He was in a foul mood since this morning's summoning."

Sol's ears perked. She tried not to appear too interested. "Summoning, ma'am?"

"Weren't you there? The commander of Surtur's army was finally sentenced today. The news was all over Asgard."

Sol shook her head. "I'm afraid I missed it. What happened to him?"

"Her, not him. It was a female, if you could believe it. She was thrown in a pit of ice for all of eternity."

A cold shiver ran down the demon's spine as she thought of the yawning, black pit, the dripping water, the ice.

"Sounds serious," Sol said.

The woman grunted. "It deserved it, trying to attack Asgard. The only pity is that Surtur, curse his eyes, wasn't thrown in there too. Now there'll be another uprising in a millennia or so. It's a damn cycle, over and over again. Come on, then. Back to the kitchens and for the prince's meal."

Sol felt her head bobbing on her neck. She inwardly grimaced, suddenly regretting bringing the topic up. What was she expecting—sympathy? She was the enemy, Surtur's commander. It was folly to seek anything but hostility, and as Sol followed the woman back to the kitchens, her legs leaden, she realized there would be no saving grace on her part. She had led Surtur's army, and would've been responsible for the death of thousands had her army succeeded. _The Asgardian is right, _she thought. Revenge was a circle of violence, breeding onto itself the next generation of pain. If she killed Odin, someone would kill her. Maybe someone would avenge her in turn, and then them, so on and so forth for ages. _It's a dance. _It was a dance she knew the steps all too well, and she found the music drowned out all other sounds.

The pit's dark menace made sure of that.

Upon entering the kitchens she was handed a platter of cooked pheasant with a goblet of what smelled like wine, dry and pungent. Her mouth watered at the steam rising off the bird before a silver lid was placed onto it. The woman appeared for only a moment to tell her where to find the prince's chambers and where to go afterward. Then Sol was herded off, along with the dozen other servants carrying similar dishes to their masters. It wasn't long before the coal dog headed toward a different corridor than the others, one that led away from the main paths. Her thin-soled feet pattered on the polished floor, the clamor of voices and bodies fading the further she went along. She bit down her irritation. She wanted to be Odin's servant, not his recluse of the son. She tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of her figure: two weeks ago, she'd been commander of Surtur's forces. Now she was a lowly slave to a dark prince. _I'm just using Loki to get to Odin, _she thought._ Nothing will be for long. _

Thoughts heavy, Sol at last found herself in front of a set of heavy oaken doors. The surface was orange and yellow in the flickering firelight, and as she stared at them, she could discern scenes and figures and runes carved into the wood, all wrought by a master's hand. She couldn't read the runes; she had no knowledge of the Asgardian alphabet. Swallowing down the sudden surge of nervousness, she rapped at the door with her knuckles. After a few taps she stood back, as if expecting the door to open. There was no answer. She cursed herself. She didn't know the proper protocol in the situation like this. Should she leave the food on the ground by the door? Should she enter anyway? Realizing she couldn't depart now and ruin the food with chill, she took in a breath and pushed at one of the doors. After some resistance, it creaked open. Sol peered inside. Dimness met her. In the strange, greenish-blue glow coming from the figure hunched over a massive, dusty tomb, she discerned a bed, a fireplace, an immense bookcase. The room was large, able to fit twenty people comfortably. She watched the figure. His back was to her. He made no motion of acknowledgement, despite the sliver of firelight piercing through the murk.

She coughed. "Your supper, my lord."

The figure shifted, the chair creaking. "Put it on the table." The spoken words were gently masculine, smooth, refined, as cool as rain. Sol found herself hurrying to comply, finding the table he spoke of and placing the food and drink down. She turned to leave, eager to depart this strange, dark place, when a strange sensation stopped her. At first she thought it was just her hunger, but then in persisted, growing stronger until she could only describe it as burning. Then she realized it was like ice inside her soul, its cold tendrils wrapping around her heart and squeezing until all she felt was its frostbitten grasp. Shivers began to rack her body in response to the sudden internal chill. Terror surged through her as her mind fell into disjointed thoughts. _Ice. _The ice, she was in the hole, that freezing, stinking hole, in the ice and the darkness; there was no escape, not this time—her luck, lost, there was no hope—and she found herself tearing at the skin around her throat, a howl of anguish foaming at her lips. Just when she thought she was going mad—for truly, this was Helheim—the cold receded. Sol huddled on the ground, shuddering in the aftershock of fear, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Her throat burned from where she scratched at it. Her spear wound throbbed. Her nostrils flared, greedily drinking in the familiar scents of pheasant and wine. Then she could smell him: leather, spice, the dark perfume of magic. She felt him hovering near, could feel his cold gaze on her, but she dared not turn her head. She remained on the floor, frozen.

"That was for entering without my permission and disturbing me. Now get out of my sight."

Sol heaved herself up and almost tripped over her feet in haste. When she crossed the threshold the door slammed behind her, nearly clipping her heels. She stumbled forward with a yelp. Throwing looks over her shoulder, she barely resisted the urge to run, walking at a swift pace away from the chambers. Guards who passed her sniggered and mentioned 'there goes another one—Loki's up to his tricks.' Sol didn't stop until she entered the room the woman had dictated. It was a sleeping chamber of some sort, or a resting lounge. There were beds and sofas and a central fireplace. Despite the cheery blaze, despite the slow circulation of bodies, Sol found one of the farthest beds, crawled under the covers, and for hours afterward unable to remove the shake in her hands.

.s.

When morning rounds came, Sol stood for duty. She could hear the other servants of Asgard's great house murmuring about Loki's newest attendant, but she ignored them. Let them mutter. The terror of last night had faded into a steely calm, and as she listened to the duty roster and picked up the clean sheets for the prince's bedding, she knew she'd gone too far to quit now. She was coupled with another girl to add expediency to the task. Her companion was quiet. She didn't say much in the way of conversation, but the coal dog wasn't in the mood for idle chitchat. Together they ate a quick breakfast—Sol wolfing everything she could—before pattered away. Sol eyed the girl, noticing muscle twitching in her cheek the closer she came to the double oaken doors.

The girl knocked. She received no answer. Without waiting, she pushed the door open. Sol choked down her cry of alarm, realizing the prince wasn't typically in his chambers in the morning. Grimacing, she hurried after her companion, who was already in a whirlwind of cleaning, dusting, and polishing. The demon stood by, a little at a loss. Though it was morning, the room still seemed a dim, despite the one window throwing a strip of warm, golden sunlight on the wall. A cheery fire thrummed in the centre fireplace. Sol's nostrils flared. She could smell his scent like a lingering presence, the dark perfume of magic still clinging to everything like a shroud, mixing with the leather and sweat. It brought the memory of his cruelty to her mind.

The girl noticed Sol's hesitation and began stripping the bed. "Hurry," she said. "Help me remove these."

They worked in silence, the girl's motions fast and experienced. In no time the sheets were changed and the pillows fluffed. Under her instructions, Sol learned how to dust and polish.

Soon the girl gave everything a quick once-over. She shuddered, rubbing her arms. "Okay," she said. "Let's go."

Sol took one last look around the room, then followed her comrade out. As the girl scurried away, Sol realized this was her chance to explore the layout of the palace. Mimicking the meek and demur demeanor of a summoned servant, the coal dog spent the rest of the day familiarizing herself with the royal house. Careful never to pass the same guards twice, she learned Thor's chambers were almost opposite to Loki's. She also discovered Odin and Frigga's chambers rested at the very pinnacle of the fortress. There were staircases to and fro the royal quarters, patrolled hourly. Windows dotted the long ascent. Sol stuck her head out of one and saw, if one were skilled enough and possessed sharp claws, they could scale the outside to enter the king's balcony. For all of her recon, Sol never once saw the golden king, and by the time the sun was dipping beyond the horizon, turning the sky into a crystalline lightshow of stardust and galaxies, she was drained, hungry, and uneager to enter Loki's chambers again. She was still no closer in discovering Odin's weakness. She plodded into the servants' quarters. An uproar of conversations met her.

Sol sidled next to a particularly heated discussion. "What happened?" she asked.

Six pairs of eyes turned on her, all gleaming with a gossiper's delight at fresh prey.

"Four guards went never showed up to muster yesterday," one of them said. "The same four meant to deliver Surtur's demon's sentence. They think it may've escaped."

Sol snorted before she could stop herself. "Why would it stay in Asgard?

Another servant said, "What if it wants vengeance? Assassin attempts have happened before."

His friend, clearly following the lines of an old argument, said, "Against King Odin? No creature, demon and otherwise, would be that foolish. For it to remain would be a death wish. Would it not try to leave?"

"Just because no one's succeeded doesn't mean—"

Within seconds Sol was ignored in favor of the ensuing debate. She didn't mind; she had what she needed. _The boy didn't lie, _she thought as she moved away, _gossip and truth does travel fast among these people. _Then: _I guess the secret of my escape is out. I know it would happen eventually._

"—wouldn't matter anyway. Even if the demon did try to kill Odin, it would be missing its chance."

Sol entered the new conversation. "Why's that?"

"Oh. Loki's new one." Eyes swept up and down her form. Sol tried not to bristle. "Since you're not privy to such information, it's understandable you wouldn't know the king will be in Nidavellir all this week."

_He'll be leaving? _Her ears perked. "You're right: I didn't know that."

"Why would you? Even with that exotic accent of yours, you're not servant to him."

Sol was glad when the servant moved on. She didn't like the way he looked at her. _Relax, _she thought. _That only means I'll remain in Loki's service for a week longer than I'd expected. Nothing's changed. _She hoped it didn't. Then she went to the kitchens to retrieve the dark prince's meal—honeyed boar, legumes, and water. She forced her hands not to shake as she brought it to the double oaken doors. Mustering her courage, she rapped on the wood, and took a step back. She dared not enter until the quiet "Enter," perforated the stillness. She was greeted with a similar sight: the strange, greenish glow, the dimness, the dark figure. Something smelled like burning feathers, or hair, harsh and acrid. She padded to the table, placed the food and drink down, and left. It was only when she closed the door behind her did she realize she'd been holding her breath.

.s.

Sol had little time to explore the following day. An entourage from Nidavellir, the dwarves' home, was coming to enjoy Asgard's bounty and solidify the trust and trade routes between Odin and a high-ranking dwarven house. Everyone's efforts were needed for the preparation of the feast. It was an organized chaos of errand boys skirting around legs, chiefs shouting orders, helpers relaying ingredients. Sol was put on potato-peeling duty. The coal dog lost count of how many of the tubers she peeled, her hands grimy with starchy water. The delicious scents of roasting boar and bird and fish had her nearly drooling. Dwarven delicacies were heaped onto platters and whisked away. Wine, red as old blood was poured from huge vats into pewter containers, along with caskets of honeyed mead and flagons of crystalline water.

Morning drifted into afternoon and turned to night. Soon torchlight replaced the sunshine and the familiar golden glow settled over the kitchens. A balmy air floated from the high-vaulted windows, bringing scents of incense, fire, and, fainter, of the sea. The sounds of merrymaking and laughter and music drifted from the feast hall. Servants bustled in and out, quick to demand more food or drink.

Sol's eyes narrowed. Seeing everyone preoccupied, she abandoned her potato post. Grabbing a random tray with an empty cup, she strode through the corridor and entered the hall. Golden light, made brilliant from the amount of torches, mirrors, jewels present, nearly blinded her. The buzz of many conversations, once muffled by walls, was a near full-throated roar. Laughter rang across the sea of people. All the white-clothed tables were positioned in a horseshoe, with the royal family at the head. Sol's heart quickened at the sight of the grizzled, one-eyed king. Unlike at her sentencing, Odin wasn't wearing his goat-horned helmet and armor. His white hair and beard were trimmed and wooly in the intense, gleaming light. He appeared deep in conversation with a dark-haired, wrinkled dwarf. At Odin's side sat regal Frigga, and beyond her, Thor and Loki. The differences between the princes couldn't have been more disparaging. Loki, cold and aloof in his dark green and black leathers, picked at his meal as loud, red-caped, armored Thor dug into his roast mutton with a wolf's gusto. Several time she thought she caught Odin looking at the crown prince, something akin to weariness and irritation setting on his features.

When a hand grabbed her, _"What are you doing? Get back into the kitchens!"_ Sol hurried away. Her veins pulsed with excitement, dread, and adrenaline. Slipping past the chiefs, attendants, and guards, she scurried away from the nucleus of bodies and towards the tower leading to Odin's bedchamber. The mild breeze stirred her hair as she crouched on a sill, the scent of sea foam thick in her nose. Concentrating, she let her body undergo a partial transformation. Her hands and feet were more Asgardian than canine, longer, thicker, stronger. Claws curled at the fingers and toes. _Don't fail me now, _she thought.

She began to climb.

Higher and higher she rose, the wind buffeting her clothes and hair the more elevated she became. She was back in Muspelheim, scaling the volcano cliffs, reveling in the scorching blasts from the sulfur pits below, laughing, feeling like she could conquer the world. She'd been young then, youthful and foolish. Now she was climbing the walls of her enemy, perhaps to her death. Claws searched for purchase in the metallic stones. She was glad she started when she did. By the time she finished the feast would've surely been finished and Odin would be retiring. She gritted her teeth, the physical exertions renewing her spear wound's aching throbs. Galaxies swirled beyond her shoulder. Several times she ducked beneath a window sill as the telltale _tramp, tramp _of guards shuddered past. She could see the overhang of the mighty balcony. She redoubled her efforts. Burying her claws in deep, grunting at the bright bursts of pain, she scaled the edge. Peeking over, she saw the balcony dark and abandoned. Swinging herself up and landing catlike, she quickly hurried inside, her nails clicking on the marbled floor.

_Think, think! _Sol turned around in place. A vent high above the fireplace caught her attention. Heaving herself up along a tapestry, she made her way to it. Ripping the grating out, she managed to maneuver herself in. Her heart was a nest of snakes in her chest as she replaced the grate, and waited. When the golden doors finally opened, she was quivering with nerves.

Her enemy treaded into view, his gait slow and tired. At her angle he seemed nothing but a weary old man, worn thin from eons of rule. Sol's mouth tightened. Frigga was by his side, helping him out of his supper dress wear. The queen passed her hand over the fireplace and in an instant a cheery fire blazed up. Smoke began drifting into the vent but Sol breathed easy, well used to soot and ash. Her eyes did not water or sting as she gazed down.

"That went well, didn't it?" The queen's voice was as clear and high as a bell.

Odin grunted. "Well enough, by dwarven standards. Halnar agrees with going forth with the talks of peace and open commerce. It would do well for both our people and our economies."

Frigga moved away, heading towards a small cabinet. She poured herself two glasses of water and handed one to her lord and husband.

"To Nidavellir it is, then," the queen said. "Must be freezing this time of the year."

"It's always cold in the dwarven home." Odin sat down on the edge of the vast bed. At her angle she could see him wince. A strange tension tinged the silence between them as Frigga stood a little ways away, cradling her water in one graceful hand. When she spoke again, her voice was delicate.

"How much longer are you going to let old bones carry the burden, my lord?"

"As long as necessary," Odin said. He must've snapped harder than he meant to, for his next words were gentler. "He's just not ready."

"When will he be?"

Odin stood up and, perhaps unknowingly, started to pace. Sol began to sense she was listening to the lines of an old argument, watching the steps of a favorite dance. A frisson of thrill swept through her and she resisted the urge to lean against the grate. Since her escape three days ago, this was what she'd been waiting for. She watched as Odin stopped pacing, facing the balcony. Frigga remained where she was, perhaps knowing he'd come back to her. Sol cupped her ears to hear her enemy's next words.

"Every time I think he's proven himself, every time I see a glimmer of the king he could be, he buries it under petulance and vanity. This is a time for peace and trust, my lady, for if history serves, strife is never too far behind the coattails of tranquility. I cannot . . ." Here the words went quiet, murmured, and as much as Sol strained, she couldn't hear. Frigga had moved besides her husband, and together they stepped out onto the balcony. The coal dog cursed, but tried to soothe herself. She knew she had something—a glimmer—but something. Now she just needed to escape the room undetected. When Odin and Frigga returned, they didn't speak again. Sol dared not move once as the lights dimmed, the fire went out, and the breathing turned soft with sleep. It idly crossed her mind to kill him there—she had her enemy at his most vulnerable—but she knew it was too premature. _Not yet, _she thought, though deep in her mind, she wondered if she'd ever get another chance like this again.

PART III

"I should beat you for insolence! Where were you all morning? You made Drífa clean Prince Loki's room all by herself!"

Sol swallowed hard and bowed her head low. "I apologize, ma'am. That won't happen again."

When she looked up, a ringing slap struck her across her face. Her cheek instantly became warm.

"That's so you'll remember your words," the woman said. "And since you think yourself so mighty, why don't you clean the prince's chambers by yourself from now on? I think you'd like that, seeing how you _volunteered _to be his little servant."

Sol bowed again, nursing her hurt. The woman thrust her towards the kitchens, where she would _"Peel the potatoes until her hands bled". _Sol ignored the stares and did as she was told, comforting herself with the knowledge that all of this was worth it. She had snuck into her enemy's lair, undetected, and overheard a small kernel of knowledge. Knowledge was power, and as Sol set herself to peeling the tubers, her mind worked. Morning turned into afternoon and bled into night before the demon roused herself from her thoughts. Her hands were cramped and aching. Her head hurt. She stunk of potatoes and cloudy water. Realizing it was suppertime, she made her way to the kitchens. A few servants shot looks at her as she took up the Loki's food. The familiar dread, slick and oily, settled around her heart as she took the now-familiar route to the prince's chamber. What had darkened him to magic and cruelty? His punishments ranged from heartless to malicious. _Odin deserves his sons, _she thought.

Then it hit her.

She stood, struck dumb under the dawning realization. _That's it. _Her skin tingled, face alternating between chilling and heating. She wanted to jump, run, howl, transform; her body wanted to go in so many directions she stood frozen in place. How could've she'd been so blind? Swallowing hard, struggling regain her composure, she rapped her knuckles on the door.

"Supper, my lord," she said, for good measure.

She only had to wait a moment more before the door, on its own accord, clicked open. Sol hesitated—was this a trick? Was verbal acknowledgement required for her to enter?—but took a deep breath, steeled herself, and pushed through. Unlike the previous two times, warm burnished light filled the chamber. A small fire licked and twisted in the fireplace. The prince was in an armchair facing her, a book held in the long, slender fingers. It was the first time she'd properly seen him. His skin was wan in contrast to the blackness of his hair, his sweeping cheekbones made sharper in the flickering firelight. Their eyes met for a moment, his narrow and green. For an instant she was terrified he would see through her true form with his magic, but then she remembered it was dragonsight that could pierce any disguise. _I'm still staring_. She swiftly ducking her gaze, she went to the customary table and put the meal down. She was turning to leave when a smooth voice stopped her.

"You're the same one as before. I am impressed."

Sol looked up. The prince was regarding her, his gaze piercing, cool.

"You scare the others. I'm here in their stead, my lord," she said.

"That would imply you are not afraid."

"My lord is a master of magic," Sol said, in her heart remembering the icy clutch of darkness, the terror. "Of course I'm afraid."

His eyes narrowed and the book closed with a succulent _snap_. He stood up in a whisper of dark leathers, far taller than her. When he drew over it Sol couldn't help notice it was like watching a stalking firecat, his steps like velvet. The dangerous odor of magic clung to his form like a second skin. He came close enough for her to see the stress lines on his forehead. She flushed, knowing she reeked of potatoes.

"Have we met before?" he asked.

Sol's heart pounded. "I'm a servant and my lord is a prince. Of course not."

"Ah. Silly me." There was a pregnant pause. Cold sweat dripped down the crevice of her spine. "I couldn't help but notice your accent. Muspelheim, I believe."

Sol bowed her head. "A spoil from war, my lord."

She could feel him regarding her, his gaze a physical weight. _This is it, _her mind shrieked. _He found out! _She tightened, preparing to run or strike, despair coursing through her. She had no hope against a master of magic—he would incapacitate her like last time, call the guards, and she would be thrown into the hole. Gooseflesh rippled across her skin at the thought of the black pit, the stench of rust and death. She couldn't believe it when the gaze lifted and Loki was walking away, as if suddenly bored. The sudden change in mood had Sol reeling. When she heard the dismissive, "That will be all," she found her knees watery and unwilling to move. She forced herself to the doors on will alone. She didn't stop walking until she was well out of sight of the oaken doors before collapsing, intoxicating relief flooding her system until she was drunk with it.

.s.

Over the course of the following days Sol couldn't sit still. Sleep avoided her. When she could catch a thin slumber, nightmares plagued her. Sometimes it was the scene of her sentencing, all of Asgard huddled around, watching, sometimes it was in the pit below the city. She obsessed over the details of how she would end Odin. Scenarios, some triumphant, some failure, gnawed on her like dogs do bones. Deep insider her the spear wound refused to stop aching, and several times she thought she saw the red wound spreading. Added to these things, she alone was burdened with the task of caring for the dark prince. Often it took her till mid-morning to clean his chambers. She rarely saw the prince before suppertime, and when she did, he hardly acknowledged her. She was glad. There was an aura of latent power and malice beneath the slender, unassuming form. Whereas Thor screamed might and strength, the coal dog noticed the dark prince was content with dealing in the shadows. She rarely saw him in another's company, and when he was, he was aloof and preoccupied, unapproachable. Sometimes she caught glimpses of Loki with his brother, but those meetings were brief and terse. Sol grew to understand not all was well in the house of Odin, and the more she observed, the more her plan solidified.

_A warmonger and a recluse, _she thought one day, bent over the familiar bowl of potatoes. _Is this what Asgard's hiding? _With Odin gone, Thor would have to take the throne. It wouldn't be long before the god of thunder started a war, perhaps with Asgard's bitter enemy, the Jötuns. Then all the realms would see just how arrogant and diseased the golden halls were. Sol could see it as clearly as if it were a vision. War and chaos would descend upon all the worlds. There would be death on a massive scale. Some part of her, still untouched by the dark pit's influence, recoiled under the weight of the repercussions. Could she go through with it? She would be responsible for the death of thousands. In a perfect world she would kill Odin and Odin alone, but she knew destroying him would destroy everything else. The system would topple, along with the everything Odin had ever worked for.

.s.

Two days before the Lord of Asgard returned, Loki summoned her to his chambers. Confusion riddled through Sol. It was early afternoon—the prince never wanted her before supper. Confusion turned to frustrated dread; she had two days left. What if the thing he wanted ruined everything? Ignoring the sympathetic looks shot her way, she left the servant lounge and hurried to the double oaken doors. Before she could even knock, a swift, "Enter," called out. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and went in. White sunlight streamed in from the huge window. The desks and tables were pushed to the walls, suddenly giving the room a hollow feeling. Loki stood in the middle, dressed in his customary leathers. By his side, on a pedestal, rested a large tome. The aged vellum reeked of stale dust, magic, and ancient leather.

"My lord?"

"I require a test subject for a new spell. You will stand right here—" he pointed to a spot on the floor, "—and stay there. I suggest you not move, lest there are . . . undesirable consequences."

Seeing no choice, Sol did as she was told. She lowered her chin, bracing herself. The prince's brow furrowed, then he brought his hands up into a complex motion. The dark perfume of magic spiked in the air. For a moment nothing happened. Sol stood, blinking. Then, in her peripheral vision, she thought she could see the walls bending. She turned her head. It was gone.

"Well? The spell should have brought on a sense of disorientation. Was this so?"

Sol shrugged. "A little. The walls bent some, but that was all. My lord."

The prince's gaze narrowed. He left his post with a small, noncommittal _hm _and regarded the book again, his eyes flickering over the pages. Sol felt her muscles uncoil as she waited. _This isn't so bad, _she thought. After a few minutes more, Loki left the book and repeated the hand motions, this time adding a new pattern. In an instant the room's bending was more noticeable. An overwhelming sense of dizziness swept through her as walls and ceiling started to run like wax. Sol clutched a hand to her head as the spell was lifted.

"Yes! Yes. Everything was spinning much more this time," she said. The soldier in Sol recognized the spell as perfect for distracting an enemy in the heat of battle. Despite his slender lines and elegant cut, the prince would be no laughing matter in a fight. Sol knew of some sorcerers, but never had she been so close to one. She wondered how many of these spells he tried on himself. _Or others, _she thought. She was righting herself when a loud banging thundered on the doors. Loki hardly had time to ask who was it before they opened, admitting entrance to Thor. Loki immediately bristled, shoulders tensing. The god of thunder looked about the room, grin plastered on his face, eyebrow quirking when he noticed Sol.

"Ah, practicing your tricks again, I see," Thor said.

"What I do in my own time is my business. I suggest you go about yours," Loki said, his soft voice collecting ice. He seemed to coil in on himself as Thor continued to strut about the room, especially when his brother neared the bookcase. Sol watched askew. _There's truly no love lost between them, _she thought. _Your house is crumbling, Odin-king. Can you see it?_

"The Warriors Three, Sif, and I are going _buldershnit_ hunting. Care to join?"

"As much as I would love traipsing in the mud and the woods, I'm afraid I will have to decline this time. Thank you, though, dear brother, for the offer." Loki smiled. Sol hid a shiver at the perfect gleaming teeth. If Thor noticed, he made no show of it. _Or he's oblivious, _the coal dog thought. When he laughed and said, "Next time, then!" and left, Sol wished she was with him. When Loki turned to her, face smooth, mouth thin, eyes hard and flat, Sol was already cringing. She hardly saw the hand motions before the world was pitching on its axis, floor and ceiling melding into one horrendous cacophony. She didn't realize she was on the ground until she was staring at the ceiling, panting, her back against the cool floor. Her throat worked convulsively as saliva pooled in her mouth.

"For your sake, I suggest against vomiting." The voice, cool, tinged with warning, felt like miles away. She thought she could hear him moving, maybe away from her, but nothing made sense in her head. Sol tried to get up, tried to get to safety, but found everything was spinning too fast for her body to work. She continued to pant, limp, for an undetermined length of time. When she could sit without falling, she pitched herself to her feet. Reeling, half-blind, she stumbled out, and for the rest of the day suffered a dizzying headache.

.s.

When the messenger announced Odin's return, a strange calmness descended on Sol. For a week her mind had been a whirlwind, refusing to pause, and now, at the moment of the announcement, she couldn't think at all. She walked as if in the eye of a storm, wrapped in a bubble of muted sound and colour and smell while the rest of the world bustling and bristling with its vitality. A month ago she had possessed the same tranquility; it had been hours before the war with the Aesir. She remembered standing on the volcano's lip, surveying Surtur's forces, bristling beneath her obsidian armor, feeling for all the world both invincible and terribly fragile. She had surmised her death waited for her in the fields below, and when she had been taken captive, she had been astonished. In Asgard's dungeons she had prepared herself for death again—public execution, no doubt—but when the words _encased in ice till Ragnarok _sounded, all she could sense was numbness. To survive everything, then live for the cruelest punishment?

Two truths were certain: she would have to make her move soon, and quickly. She didn't know how long her guise as Loki's servant would last, or before he accidently killed her with his 'games.' It was with a strange sort of bitter triumph did she realize if Loki took the throne, he would be no better than Thor. He could be even worse. Surely Odin had to realize both his sons weren't the perfect little rulers he'd hoped them to be. _It must sting, _she thought, eyes locked onto her enemy's lofty chamber, _to know your sons are inadequate. _By suppertime, tension refused to let her eat. Her bowels loosened and knotted in fear. When it was time to bring the dark prince his meal, Sol struggled to keep her hands from shaking. The prince was busy reading another tome when she entered. He hardly acknowledged her presence. Breathing through her nose, she went to the customary table and placed the salmon and mint tea down. Before she reached the oaken doors and relative safety, she stopped. _What are you doing! Leave when you still have your chance! _her mind shrieked as she felt her mouth say, "May I ask a question, my lord?"

Loki looked up from his book. His lips quirked, as if amused by the very idea, and some of the tension rolled of her chest. He waved a hand in a clear _If you must_.

Sol licked dry lips and braced herself. "Is it true you locked a servant in a closet for hours?"

"Oh, that!" His mouth stretched, as if the question pleased him, but it wasn't a pleasant smile; it straddled the thin line between happiness and violence just enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stiffen and the warning bells in her head to knell. "Just a bit of fun, really."

Sol nodded, bowed, and left. As she walked through the marble corridors, she realized she never wanted to pass through those doors again. _And I won't, _she thought, both relieved and jittery, _not after tonight. _She knew it had to be done now, or she would lose the little nerve she had left. She made her way to the servant's lounge but continued on at the last second. She passed by guards and other servants, her heart pulsing still with the pre-battle calm. She ducked behind the same pillar as last time and partially transformed her hands and feet into claws. Pausing once to sniff the air and finding it free of armor polish, she launched herself at the side of the metal tower. Her claws bit in deep and, grunting, she began to scale the height. The sea pulsed below her. Exertion and focus kept her mind empty as she climbed the tower. Then she was already at the balcony, the bones in her arms aching. Pulling herself up into one last heave, she swung up and landed on the railing.

Odin was waiting.

Sol froze as every fiber in her blood and micron in her body congealed and turned rigid. Breath turned to ash in her lungs. Emotions, too many to count, whirled through her until all she could feel was numbness and a curious sense of dearth. She felt clean, blank, just as she did when she escaped the pit. She crouched for what felt like an eternity, every grain of time passing with agonizing slowness. Her enemy regarded her from where he stood, decked in golden armor, horned helmet gleaming under the light of the swirling galaxies, Gungnir held loose in a hand. She could still smell the dwarven home world on him in a combination of rock, root-mead, and cellar-musk. In the moment of almost inane clarity, she saw his wrinkles were cut deep, as if a masonite went to his old flesh and chiseled away to the bone. Despite his straightness, a shroud of weariness hung about him like a cloak, and the closer Sol looked, the more she realized he was leaning on Gungnir. She tensed when her enemy shifted. She sniffed the air.

"Where are your precious Aesir?" she asked, and found tears were running down her face. She snarled them away.

"They will come when they are called," Odin said, low and serene, as if he were speaking to a friend rather than an enemy on his balcony.

"Do your sons know?"

Sol was viciously gratified to see Odin's expression congeal and harden.

"If they do, they recognize it is my business and not theirs," he said.

Sol stared at him, and understood. She felt she was back in Loki's chambers under the disorientation spell. The ground seemed to sway under her paws. She heard herself say, "You knew."

Odin nodded once. "Aye, demon, I did. That night, after the feast. I knew you were there. After learning of your escape from the Room of Eternity, I knew your intention was to eventually kill me."

Sol began to wheeze. This was a nightmare. She was dreaming, none of this was real. "Why didn't you sound the alarm? Why let me get this far?"

Her enemy regarded her with an expression of such wearied sadness it made her want to rip his remaining eye out. "I was hoping you would see your mistakes and forgive. Perhaps you could have found away to return to Muspelheim."

"You were going to throw me in ice until Ragnarok," Sol said, incredulous. She wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. She struggled to remain sane. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

"You were going to aid in the destruction of my people and ruin the peace."

"Ho, no—your _sons _will do that, because when you're dead and gone, Thor will ascend to the throne and destroy everything you've tried to create. You've seen the lust of war in him." She slipped off the balcony and straightened. She heard Odin's grip on Gungnir tighten. She suddenly wanted to tear him, hurt him, and as she nursed her hatred with the memory of the black, stinking pit, she said, "I've watched them. I've served them. Where did you go wrong, Odin-king? Your house crumbles. What heartbreak you must suffer every day as you see them hurt and kill. It must torture you to know you weren't father enough to raise them right. Or maybe you've raised them _too _well, that you've taught them everything you know, you cruel, merciless—"

Odin thrust Gungnir's butt against the stones and a thundering knell vibrated through the stones. Anger rippled out of his eye as he bared his teeth like an animal. "That is enough out of you," he said, and in his words Sol could hear his struggle for calm. Faintly she could hear the _tramp tramp tramp _of guards making their way to the royal chambers.

"I will not make the same mistake again," he said, and the note of finality told Sol this was it. "When the Aesir come, I will throw you in the pit myself."

The final veil of disbelief lifted. In a rush she could smell the salt from her tears, the sweat on her enemy's brow, the approaching guards. Leagues away, the sea swelled and breathed. Sol understood then: after all this time she had never left the hole, that it was in her skin and heart and thoughts, and as she regarded the Lord of Asgard, she knew some things could never be undone.

"Goodbye, Odin-king."

She leapt. Only the telltale shift in his feet warned her of his intentions. Twisting in mid-air to avoid Gungnir's blast, she transformed, her body running like wax into its true ferocious dog-shape. Another blast scored the stones and Sol snarled, muzzle bunching, hackles quivering. Her eyes blazed as she hurled herself for the second time at her enemy, her entire nature propelled for the killing blow. She was too close. Odin's eye widened as he realized this. He tried to backpedal, tried to dodge, but Sol was there. She wrapped her jaws around the old throat and bit down with all the strength she had. Cartilage crunched. Her fangs punctured the soft carotid arteries and hot, salty blood bathed her tongue. She could feel herself falling with her enemy, tumbling to the ground, and as the impact shuddered in her chest, she knew he was dying. She released her jaws and stood over him, thoughts far away. Blood poured from his neck and mouth, still pumping with fading arterial flow in faint _kss, kss _sounds. Her ears pinned as the eye dimmed, expressionless. The élan disappeared. Odin was dead.

Sol snapped her head up as a roar of inconsolable fury and grief ripped through the air. _"FATHER!" _

Her pupils shrank as she saw Thor's horrified face. Behind him was Loki, visage wan with shock, and in the distant background, the guards stood uncomprehending. Horror turned to a towering rage as Thor unleashed Mjölnir. The weight of his violence shot the blow high and Sol managed to duck its wrath. As it was humming back to its master the coal dog turned and raced towards the balcony, tail flying behind her. She smelled the sizzling bolt of magic before it could hit and swerved just in time. It exploded next to her head, warping the stones into diseased shapes. The demon knew she wouldn't survive a blow from either weapon. She had no choice. Bunching her hindquarters, she leapt up onto the balcony and jumped.

For a moment she was airborne. Hovering galaxies stood just beyond her reach, spiraling and vast. Then she was falling through space, tumbling tail over paws, yelping. More magic sizzled at her but she twisted, avoiding the bolts. Wind whistled in her ears and fur. Her stomach plastered to her spine. Several times she tried to slow her descent with her claws, sparks squealing each time she made contact with the palace's surface. Howling, picking up speed, she could see the sea coming to greet her. Something roared above her. She twisted her head. Thor rushed towards her, murder on his eyes. Snarling, Sol met the god in a clash of fur and metal. A hand found her throat and began to squeeze with crushing ruthlessness. Only her thick ruff of fur saved her. Torquing her head, she brought her jaws closed on the arm choking her and she bit down. Arm and fang grated against each other in a squeal. Thor shouted. A resounding punch snapped her back and untangled their bodies tens of feet apart. Before the god of thunder could wreak more vengeance, they hit the sea. Pain of a thousand needles lanced through Sol's body as the impact shuddered through her. For a moment she sank in the cold waters, suddenly in a world without sound or smell. Then instinct and a need for air spurred her forward, and she began to kick to the surface.

Though there wasn't a drop of water on Muspelheim, she remembered swimming in the lava lakes with her litter-mates. The moment she broke the surface she began to swim as fast as she could, her body a torpedo, her powerful legs pumping. She thought she could hear Thor cursing and swimming after her, which propelled her to greater speeds. Spears and arrows whizzed around her, slicing into the water with deadly hisses. Then Loki's disorientation spell hit her. Sky and sea became one and Sol thought she had gone insane, dizzying pain rolling her eyes into her skull. Only sheer willpower kept her paddling, and as the distance grew between her and the palace, at last the spell wore off. Deep inside her the spear wound turned into a burning stitch, biting her hard. She dared not stop: she could hear Thor swimming after her, his arm strokes and splashes fueling the fear that kept her ahead of him. Several times she considered turning to fight, fangs bared and lips wrinkled, but every time she pressed onward, her body steered on a course she dared not deviate.

.s.

Sol kept swimming long after Thor stopped following her. She remembered feeling as exhausted as she did now a long time ago, when she had run almost to the point of collapse. She had been young and beautiful then, her belly stretched to the ground, her tail whipping behind her, her paws propelling her across the rocky plains. Never had she felt freer. Now her strokes were flagging, her body aching and tired. Her spear wound was a ball of fire. The very weight of her fur seemed to drag her down. _Don't stop, _her mind murmured, _don't stop. _The wooden mantra kept her going long after her weary body yearned to sink to the bottom. She could feel the currents helping her along, pushing the demon to destinations unknown. The night sky above beckoned to her, the space between the stars black as pitch, the multi-toned gas nebulas gently spiraling by. Where was she headed? She had long stopped swimming to somewhere. Her head dipped beneath the surface. It took longer for her to come sputtering to the surface now, her nostrils blowing seawater. She was so tired it took her awhile to acknowledge the roar of a waterfall. _Waterfall? _That meant there was an end. _I'm at the end of the realm, _she realized. It was too late to turn around now. Already Sol could feel the currents growing stronger, tugging her forward. Leaving. She was finally leaving Asgard. A burst of strength enveloped her limbs. _Almost there, _she thought. She began to paddle in earnest now. The roar grew louder. She could smell the cosmos just beyond the sea, and as she finally went over the edge, she let herself fall.

.

.

end


End file.
